


The Interview

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [20]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Bad Puns, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bottom Eggsy, Class Differences, Class Issues, Cock Slut, Cross-Generation Relationship, DILFs, Dom Harry, Dom/sub, Dominance, EGGSY NO, Except For What's Going On In Eggsy's Dirty Little Mind, Explicit Language, Filthy, Flirting, I Mean Eggsy Is In No Position To Turn Down A Job, I'm Pretending This Doesn't Read Like A Fifty Shades AU, Interviews, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No actual sex, Non-Sexual Submission, Obedience, Oral Fixation, Orders, Praise Kink, References to BDSM, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless, Size Kink, Sub Eggsy, Submission, Subtle Daddy Kink, Suits, Top Harry, Twinks, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wealth, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Eggsy’s recruitment could have gone.</p><p>Or, Eggsy attends a job interview for the role of personal assistant to the CEO of a famous law firm. The interview doesn’t go as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Interview

* * *

 

The office was fucking huge, but that aside, so was the chair Eggsy’s hopefully-future-boss was sitting on. Like, it was a proper supervillain chair, all black leather and winged arms and clawed hand-rests. Eggsy glanced at Mr. Hart’s lap, expecting to see a white-furred cat purring under bejeweled fingers, and ended up getting distracted by the man’s inseam. An inseam that bulged subtly at the crotch, indicating a massive package.

So Mr. Hart wasn’t overcompensating with all that gargantuan furniture. Jesus Christ.

“Do you always ogle the privates of your employers?” asked Mr. Hart, and Eggsy snapped his gaze up, appalled at himself. “Before even looking at their faces?”

“I, um.” Eggsy should’ve apologized, but he blurted: “Employer? I mean, I passed the interview? But it hasn’t even started.”

“You have the very qualities,” and here, Mr. Hart surveyed him from head to toe, an odd gleam in his eyes, “that I’m seeking for this position.”

Under that focused, laser-like attention, Eggsy became agonizingly aware of how his sole formal shirt stretched tightly across his torso, because it was just that old. He’d bought it with the cash his mum had saved up for his high school graduation, dreaming of a great career for her son. A career that had never arrived.

“Tell me,” Mr. Hart said, his voice as smooth and amber-dark as whiskey, “how many… positions… do you have experience in?”

Eggsy’s jaw hung open. This—this was sexual harassment, wasn’t it? There weren’t any questions about his resumé (bordering on empty), or his academic history after school (a woeful blank), or his military record (sadly truncated). Instead, Mr. Hart was leaning back in that chair from Satan’s anteroom, appearing appropriately satanic in every way, from his devilish, hungry eyes to his thin, devious smirk. Not to mention his absurdly handsome features, that had a strangely inhuman cast to them.

Kingsman _was_  renowned as the most ruthless law firm in Britain. It was notorious for representing mafia dons and politicians alike, and raked in so much money annually that it was listed on the sodding stock exchange. Eggsy frankly hadn’t believed it when his job application—which he’d submitted online while semi-drunk on a lonely Saturday night, huddled in his blankets because he couldn’t afford to switch on the heater—had been accepted. All it had contained was a very short index of his previous employers, most of them too pissed off with him to give him a reference, and his photo.

His photo.

Right. This was about Eggsy’s physical attractiveness.

Mr. Hart wasn’t offering Eggsy a real job. Eggsy would’ve felt disappointed, perhaps even resentful, except that his traitorous oral fixation had him glancing at that inseam again, and he couldn’t resist dwelling on how broad Mr. Hart’s hands were, how big and how strong, and that they’d probably leave bruises if they _spanked_ hard enough—if they choked hard enough—

Harry Hart was exactly the type of fellow Eggsy would pick up at a gay bar. If men like Harry Hart ever frequented gay bars, as opposed to million-dollar escort services headquartered in marble-tiled, Doric-columned, glittering skyscrapers.

This was ridiculous. This was stupid. This was, potentially, humiliating, that all Eggsy was worth was a middle-aged bloke’s bit on the side. Hart wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but it was impossible that he was single. And why was Eggsy even considering this?

He decided to refuse, but then his mouth went ahead and said: “I’ve usually been at the bottom of the food chain. Insofar as positions are concerned.”

There was a silence.

_Fuck_ , Eggsy thought. _What the hell am I saying? It’s not like I’m sexually frustrated. I got laid last weekend._

“Well, well, well.” Mr. Hart quirked an eyebrow, and Eggsy had the distinct feeling he’d passed some sort of test. “I presume that’s a result of your military service.”

So Mr. Hart had read his resumé. Eggsy immediately straightened, shoulders back, eyes down. “Yes, sir.” Why did he call Mr. Hart that? It just… slipped out.

“You’re good at obeying orders, are you?”

“If they suit me,” Eggsy admitted. “Sir.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Hart, like Eggsy had revealed a secret. And then, to Eggsy’s shock, Mr. Hart swept the neatly-stacked papers atop his desk to the floor, in a loud, susurrous rustle. With his downturned eyes, Eggsy stared at the mess on the floor in disbelief. “Pick that up,” Mr. Hart ordered. Because it was definitely an order. An inviolable command.

Eggsy moved instinctively, before stopping himself. What was he doing? More importantly, why was he doing it?

Mr. Hart’s tone gained an edge. “If it suits you, that is.”

There was something in Mr. Hart’s words that was half-taunting and half-knowing, and Eggsy flushed. It was a slow flush, suffusing his body like a rush of alcohol, warming him from within.

His left foot inched forward, followed by his right. His knees bent, and an inexplicable urge made him turn so that his back was to Mr. Hart as he knelt, putting his arse on display. His trousers clung to its curves, and behind him, he heard Mr. Hart sigh.

“Perfect,” Mr. Hart murmured.

Eggsy’s flush grew hotter and deeper and _better_ , like a burn that had scalded straight through his skin to simmer like fire in his veins. He realized he was panting, and that his cock was twitching. Mr. Hart’s approval made him simultaneously proud and ashamed. He couldn’t describe the emotion that made his fingers tremble as he gathered up the papers, and he couldn’t explain the feverish haze that made him dizzy.

He rose to his feet and slid the papers onto Mr. Hart’s desk.

“If I pushed those off again,” Mr. Hart said contemplatively, “if I pushed them off a thousand times, would you pick them up each time?”

Eggsy’s throat was dry. “I…” He was bizarrely compelled to be honest. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Look at me.”

Eggsy looked up at Mr. Hart, acutely conscious of his own blushing cheeks and of the erection that had begun to tent his pants. Mr. Hart was looking back at him, and Eggsy was surprised to see that rather than the cold assessment he had expected, there was a gentleness, even an affection in Mr. Hart’s regard.

“I can promise you that every instance of obedience will be richly rewarded,” Mr. Hart said, “if that helps.”

It did. But it also made things worse, because now Eggsy was imagining rewards ranging from being fucked over the desk with those damn papers sticking to his heaving, sweaty chest, to being allowed to come as long as he did it facing the tall, floor-to-ceiling window, splattering the glass with his semen as he stroked himself to completion. Eggsy wasn’t sure why he pictured that as a reward—being reduced to an exhibition piece, much like the gold-plated awards and tasteful antiques that populated the office—but it struck him as a reward, nonetheless.

“The role you have applied for is that of personal assistant. That is precisely what you will be. You are to attend to my person.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Eggsy whispered, stuck envisioning what Mr. Hart’s ‘person’ would be like, and how muscular Mr. Hart’s back would be, were Eggsy to dig his nails into it.

“Language,” chided Mr. Hart, mildly. “You’re hired, Mr. Unwin. And for god’s sake, buy yourself a decent wardrobe. Roxy outside will give you a gift card for an atelier. Do not re-enter my office unless you are suitably dressed.” Mr. Hart reached for a fountain pen from the elegant, deer-shaped holder. “Farewell.”

Eggsy hovered uncertainly, because the conversation seemed somehow unfinished, but when it was obvious that Mr. Hart wasn’t going to continue speaking to him—or even noticing him—Eggsy departed, closing the door behind himself. He was still dizzy. He couldn’t process what had happened. What would happen, were he to return.

The girl at the reception, Roxy, beamed at him when he emerged, as if she’d foreseen Eggsy’s success. Eggsy was confused. Wasn’t she Mr. Hart’s PA? Was she going on an extended holiday, or quitting to take up another job?

“Er,” he said, “sorry to ask, but… am I replacing you?”

“Oh, no,” Roxy laughed. “I’m Mr. Hart’s… how does he put it? _Im_ personal assistant. You’re his personal assistant. You’ve figured out the difference, haven’t you?”

Eggsy fidgeted, grateful that his erection had subsided. Blimey, this was embarrassing. “I… think so?”

“It’s my duty to do the secretarial work. It’s your duty to do… the other work. The work that keeps Mr. Hart happy.”

Happy. A man like Harry Hart could be happy? As opposed to pleased or victorious or smugly superior?

“I knew you’d make it,” Roxy said, grinning. “Since you’re the only applicant he actually insisted on interviewing himself.” She handed Eggsy a folder, its cover embossed with silver text reading _Welcome to Kingsman_ , and a slim card that stated the address of an Oxford Street atelier. “Do your best,” Roxy said, and snickered. “Or be done the best, I suppose.”

Eggsy went as red as those paper lanterns strung throughout London for the Lunar New Year. “Thanks, I guess,” he mumbled, and fled.

When he’d showed up for the interview today, already despairing of ever finding decent employment, he hadn’t understood that indecent employment was an alternative. Maybe he should’ve rejected Mr. Hart. Maybe he should’ve preserved his own dignity. But Mr. Hart had an overwhelming presence, a seductive power, that made Eggsy forget all about dignity.

Eggsy was generally fond of bottoming, but he’d never thought of himself as a slut, before. He’d—he’d never found anyone he’d like to be a slut _for_ , but the prospect of Mr. Hart hissing ‘slut’ into his ear made him stumble on the building’s front steps. It wouldn’t be an insult, coming from Mr. Hart. It would be praise.

Eggsy had to drop by his tiny flat before visiting the atelier, because if he didn’t masturbate first, he’d wind up with an inconvenient stiffy in the fitting room. Eggsy didn’t need his employer’s favorite tailor informing Mr. Hart that his assistant was a pervert.

Although Mr. Hart might like perverts. Seeing as how he was one.

Given Harry Hart’s reputation as a soulless demon, Eggsy had assumed Mr. Hart would be a wanker, but he hadn’t predicted that he’d be the wanker at the end of the day, jerking off to fantasies of his boss buggering him to shreds.

“Harry,” he said tremulously, once he was at home and had a fist wrapped around himself. But the name sounded wrong on his lips—unearned—so he changed it to “sir,” and shivered at the current of lust that shot through him.

This name, Eggsy was determined to earn. This, he would work for, until he couldn’t work anymore.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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